


Collateral

by FromAnonymousToZ



Series: Lanternuary 2021 [4]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, But thats not a major focus, Enemies to Begrudging allies to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, If the beast and enoch had started off on the wrong foot, Lanternuary, Lanternuary 2021, M/M, Power Imbalance, The Dark Lantern is a Hostage, The political saga, posturing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28591662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: Old Scratch’s eyes cut swathes of color into the dark night, flurries of snow flaking down thickly around him.An alliance is made, on a cold winter's night.For the Lanternuary 2021 prompt: ignis aurum probat: "fire tests gold"
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Series: Lanternuary 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087931
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Collateral

Old Scratch’s eyes cut swathes of color into the dark night, flurries of snow flaking down thickly around him.

It clings to his thick furs and coats the small town he makes his way through. His furs drag along the snow as his walking stick taps along the ground before him, cutting canons in the snow, the lantern hanging at the end of it casting cold white light about him.

Silence spills heavy over him, disrupted only by the howling of the wind. He walks until he finds himself before a barn. Light trickles golden out of the crevices of its wood, painting it hazy among the snow-covered fields. 

He raps against the door and then waits patiently, unbothered by the cold. 

The crackle of fire hums out from the barn, and the soft sound of footsteps approach. 

The door swings open, and gilded light pours out into the night, cutting it like a blade through flesh. Old Scratch blinks into it, his eyes fading from colored rings into dull white. 

A silhouette looms in the crack of the door, so tall even Old Scratch has to crane his neck to catch its dangerous eyes. It’s a cat, though not like any cat the old Warden has ever encountered. 

Its ears are tall and ragged, pricked forward, twitching in the cold. And its long tail bristles in the air behind it. Its mouth is agape around a maw of sharp teeth, splitting its face wide… far too wide. Old Scratch doubts the monstrous thing could shut its mouth around them. Its paws rest before it, claws as large as steak knives digging gouges in the dirt. Its thick fur is the color of pitch and swallows up the light that dares peek around the feline into the cold night. 

Ah, but it’s eyes. They are the strangest of all. 

They are the eyes of a cat, indeed, but they glow, a terrible saffron glow, like singed fire. 

“Old Winter,” It greets, it’s mouth unmoving, but one of its ears gives a twitch of acknowledgment. Its tone conveys neither welcome nor hostility, broad and hollow as those eyes scrutinized him.

“Thicket Cat,” He greets in return. 

“What brings you to my doorstep, Old Winter,” Old Scratch pulls his furs closer under its piercing gaze. “I do not recall welcoming you into my domain.” There's an edge there, a warning, but an invitation to apologize and be on his way.

“You did not.” Old Winter yields, shoulders hiking in defense. He had not intended for an altercation, but it had perhaps been a foolish naivety to think he would leave Potter’s Field with both antlers intact. 

“You are not prone to such slips of the mind, Old Winter. I trust you have good reason for seeking me out.” There’s a threat there. It hangs in the icy air, insidious. 

Old Winter refuses to be swayed. 

“I have come to ask a favor of you, Old One.” 

The massive feline skin the Harvest Lord wears shifts, ears flicking as it tilts its head in interest. 

It steps away from the door, and light sheaves out into the darkness of the night. 

“Come in and warm yourself by the fire, Lord of the Wastes.” The cat glances up and down his form quickly, assessing. “Or don’t, if you prefer, but come in.” 

Obediently, Old Scratch follows the feline into the barn, his furs heavy on his shoulders as heat from a roaring fire in the center of the barn swirls up around him. Burning leaves dance in the air, a carefully controlled chaos directed by the flicking of the cat’s tail. 

Old Scratch settles in the darkest corner of the barn, furthest from the fire. The huge cat, so large it dwarfs even him, reclines on the other side of the fire. Its gilded eyes and monstrous maw leaping and shimmering with the dancing of the fire. 

Silence, broken only by the fire's hiss and crackle, weaves its treacherous fingers between the rafters of the barn. 

When Old Scratch speaks, his eyes are fixed on the flame. 

“There is a war coming.” 

The statement hangs there, unaddressed, dissipating into the air as the cat considers. 

“Yes.” It says at last regarding him coolly.

“I claimed to desire a favor,” The cat awaits his continuance. “I lied.” 

The cat hums at that but seems otherwise unbothered.

“I have an offer for you, Death Rearer,” 

The cat’s ear flicks. 

“What could you give to me, Old Winter, that I cannot supply for myself?” The voice is rough and low, not spoken through the cat, but through the fire, through the earth, through the walls of the barn. 

It belays the vast being that is Lord Autumn and the insignificance that Old Scratch is compared to him.

“Friendship.” Old Scratch tilts his head as he says it, and his antlers score against the walls of the barn. 

The cat laughs. 

“What use do I have for the companionship of tricksters and liars?” 

“Says the old trickster to the next.” Perhaps it’s unwise to adopt such a mocking, scathing tone when at the mercy of the Death Lord, but Old Scratch must speak now or not at all.

“A fair point you make. I am listening.” 

“I will be your unfailing ally, your faithful companion. I shall fight to protect your town and your people as I would my own wood.” 

“Showy words and empty promises are sweet when they spill from a silver tongue, but they leave a bitter taste in my mouth.” The cat smiles sweetly around its maw of teeth. “What proof do I have that I should trust you any more than the numerous others who have tried to test my roots. I’d just as soon turn my back to you as I would to a pack of slavering dogs.” 

Old Scratch blinks as quiet falls, the cat’s eyes sizing him up. 

Slowly, his claws twitch as he reaches for the lantern that hangs upon his walking stick. 

He unhooks and takes a step forward into the light, and stoops to place the lantern upon the ground. Then he steps back, pulling his furs close about his shoulders. 

Interest lines the cat’s body; its eyes flick between him and the lantern. 

“Surely you do not want me to believe you just placed  _ the  _ Dark Lantern before me.” The cat says, at last, eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

“If you require proof, you need only get close enough to feel my soul in it.” Old Scratch says serenely, and the cat slowly stands. 

It stares across the fire at him, its tail moving restlessly, its eyes narrow and dancing with fire. 

Old Scratch counts the moments in the leaping of the flames. 

Abruptly the Harvest Lord lunges, through the fire, embers clinging to its sooty fur and dancing up around it, a picture of a war god. A paw hits Old Scratch in the chest and flattens him to the ground, claws dig into his bark, and he lays, unmoving in the dust, blinking up at the ceiling of the barn as the Death Rearer looms above him. 

The feline hooks the lantern upon the claw of its unoccupied paw and lifts his lantern to dangle above Old Scratch’s head. 

There's an itch, one that starts in his claws and works its way up to his shoulders that makes him want to reach out for it. He restrains himself.

“I could blow you to smoke right now.” The cat hisses, eyes narrowed to gilded slits. “There would be nothing you could do to stop me.” 

“This is true.” Old Scratch says serenely from where he lays on the ground, pinned beneath claws. 

“I should.” The feline’s voice is venomous. “It would be one more danger removed, one less wolf I must turn my back to.” 

“You can.” The Warden says, blinking hollowly. “As you have said, there is nothing I can do to stop you.”

“Why?” The cat growls, low and deep, teeth flashing. “What’s your aim, Warden?” 

“I turn my back to you, so you may turn your back to me.”

The cat scrutinizes him for a long time, its eyes flicking over his face as if it might discern answers there. Its ears give a pensive flick, the smells in the air a conflicted mess that Old Scratch could not hope to pick apart. 

Laughter sweeps up so suddenly it takes Old Scratch by surprise, and he hunches defensively. It's loud and full of good humor. 

The pressure on his chest eases, and the Death Rearer retreats, allowing Old Scratch to get back to his feet. Slowly the cat circles the fire once and then settles across from Old Scratch once more. His lantern rests between its paws, out of reach. 

It makes him bristle with unease. 

“Yes,” That long tail flicks. “I think we will be very good friends.” The cat purrs.

“Time will tell.” Old Scratch replies. 

The cat hums, low and melodic. 

“So it will. You’d best be on your way now, Winter Warden, I may be placing trust in you, but you are not welcome here.”

Old Scratch glances between the cat and the lantern. 

It is a better outcome than he could have hoped, and he doesn’t intend to outwear his welcome, scant as it may be.

“Very well. My lantern, please,” Old Scratch says, holding out his hand to request his lantern back. 

The cat’s eyes are full of cruel humor. 

“Oh, no, I’ll be keeping that.” The cat grins at him, and he flounders. 

Old Scratch had been prepared for a great many things when he came, even his own death, but this was an outcome he had not anticipated. 

“It must be fed by edel-oil.” He protests. 

“Have your pet chop the trees and bring them here. I shall see to the rest.” 

“Is this collateral?” He growls, furs bristling. “To ensure I do not betray you?”

“Oh, don’t think of it like that.” The cat teases, long-tail flicking. “Think of it as protection.” 

Old Scratch’s hands ball into fists beneath his furs as fury dances in the rings of his eyes. 

“You are asking me to trust you with my being, and you give nothing in return.” 

“You ask a great trust of me to turn my back upon you, I think it only fair.” 

“You walk a dangerous path, Cat, one which is swift to turn allies into enemies.” 

The cat grins wide and dangerous. 

“You’ve done me a good turn in the past, Warden, and now you offer your protection and political graces, allow me to offer you a good turn. I will protect your lantern as you protect my town. I swear to you that if you let no harm come to my people, I will let no harm come to your flame. And if you are smart, you will come to realize I am not ill-intentioned.” 

“That is not a good turn, only a trade.” 

“Perhaps you're right, but when you’ve earned my trust, I will do you a good turn, I promise it on the blood spilled to feed bone.” The cat smiles around sharp teeth. “Now, don’t test my patience, Old Winter. You had better be on your way.” 

Old Scratch does not say anything, his icy stare saying enough. 

He stoops and lifts his walking stick from where it has clattered to the ground and makes his way to the doors, followed by the cat’s piercing gaze.

Old Scratch leaves the Autumn Lands in a fuming rage, helpless for the first time in many an age. But he will make good on his word, and even if he had not intended to, he had little say in the matter now.

* * *

War comes, hidden in silky words and hidden behind lying hands. 

It changes all of them, for better or worse. 

Old Scratch picks a new name for himself and becomes the Beast. 

The first time he kills one of his fellows, he doesn’t recognize himself. He catches a glimpse of himself in a stream as he treks miserable through the wood. Green blood coats his hands and face. It clings to his furs and stains his bark. His left arm is missing, and with a wince, he remembers the sickening crunch with which one of the Tzar’s pincers had snapped shut on his shoulder. 

He’s tired. 

He collapses at the border of Potter’s Field, the memory of being chased out by sharp claws and snapping teeth too fresh for him to bring himself to step over the fence. 

As exhaustion tucks itself around the edges of his consciousness, he feels the shifting of the earth beneath him as roots curiously explore his body. 

When he wakes up, he’s been tucked into the darkest corner of a hayloft, an old black cat, with grey around its muzzle snoozing on his chest. The Death Rearer wears a new skin now, a monstrous orange thing, with long green feelers. He frets over the Beast, ribbons wiping away the dark oil that wells up around his arm stump. 

It will be years before fragile peace comes again, and the Beast will find himself wounded in the corner of the loft nearly as often as he is not, and yet no permanent harm ever comes to him, his flame carefully guarded but the Harvest Lord.

It is strange to never feel it’s cold handle like a reassuring weight upon his antlers. To never tap along its glass face or flip open its reserves. 

Sometimes, he feels something strange, something fluttery, as if a strip of fabric has been stuck into his fire. 

The first time he feels it, he freezes where he stands in his wood, miles from Potter’s Field, waiting for the feeling of being snuffed out. It never comes, only the teasing of fabric through flame before it burns away. 

It has become a strangely familiar feeling, fabric through his fire.

As the years weather on, the conditions under which his lantern had been taken initially seemed less and less important, only that it was guarded by one of the scant few he would entrust it to. 

* * *

The Beast lays sprawled out on a bed of golden hay, eyes idly tracing the rafters of the barn ceiling as dust dances lazily in the grasp of the sun filtering through the slats of the barn. He is not in Pottsfeild because he is wounded, and that in and of itself is rare enough, but he is also not here because the Autumn Lord called for him. 

He is here because he wants to be. 

As the years had passed, the Harvest Lord’s hostility towards him in Pottsfeild had relaxed and had turned into something else. What had once been a warning had turned into a welcome. A welcome that didn’t hesitate to wrap itself around him and drag him over the border.

He blinks, tiredness clinging to every fiber of his being. Something warm is draped over his chest, the catskin, not as small as a housecat, but not as large as the Harvest Lord used to keep it. It was something around the size of a large dog and was currently occupying itself by kneading his chest as its claws prick against his bark.

The warm ball of fur on his chest is purring, or he thinks it is; it could be him purring instead. 

“Hope Eater.” Enoch’s voice is soft, gentle, but it demands his attention nonetheless. 

“Hmmm.” He hums melodically, distractedly running his claws down the catskin’s back.

The weight on his chest shifts, the catskin sitting up fully and peering down at him with golden eyes. He grunts as it readjusts and forces his gaze to focus on its face. 

“Beast.” The Autumn Lord says as if ensuring he is paying attention. 

“Enoch.” He replies, one hand coming up to brush down one of the long tufts of fur along Enoch’s jowls. His whiskers twitch. 

“Please focus, dear,” Enoch insists. “I have something to give you.” 

That makes the Beast pause. 

“A gift?” He tries to fight back the eagerness creeping blue into his eyes. When Enoch gives his presents, he finds he typically enjoys them. 

“Not quite,” Humor tinges Enoch’s voice, and the Beast’s shoulders draw up warily as he narrows his eyes. “I’d like to return something of yours,” Enoch informs him, and the Beast’s furs smooth over abruptly. 

“I have been waiting for you to return my dagger. It was terribly impolite of you to take my good knife.” He teases lightly, and Enoch sighs palpably. 

“Not that, neighbor. Though that does remind me I need to fetch that for you.” 

“Oh?” The Beast asks curiously. “What else of mine could you possibly have?” And then his eyes narrow suspiciously. “If you make a saccharine comment about my heart, I will have to throttle you.”

Enoch laughs a startled laugh as if the thought never even occurred to him. He quickly schools his expression and his tone though warmth emanates from his scent. There is a sourness to it, though the Beast notes, dread and worry mixing cinnamon in the air. 

He hisses with displeasure, and the catskin on his chest winces. 

And then, he finds himself blinking into the face of his own lantern placed gingerly on his chest between the catskin’s paws. 

The pane of glass has been replaced so that it is no longer cracked, but otherwise, no harm or change has come to his lantern, and it looks exactly as it had when he had last held it. Tentatively he runs his fingers along it, cold to the touch. 

“I figured,” Enoch says, discomfort prickling the catskin’s fur. “That it was cruel of me to keep it any longer, considering the circumstances I took it under.” 

The Beast is silent, watching the white flame of his soul whirl behind glass. It’s been so long, he cradles the lantern gently, he’s seen glimpses of it, held in green ribbons or hooked on a long black tail, but it has been centuries since he’s seen it this close. 

Enoch’s ears flatten at his silence. 

“I’m aware I should have returned it earlier- it wasn’t fair to you, to hold it over you like I did, but I worried you might leave. Since you would no longer have a reason to return,” Enoch’s words are spilling out now, in a panicked torrent, as if they have been building up for decades. “Obviously, you could leave and not return, as you have every right to; you have been more than kind in our alliances, more than even holding the lantern warranted-” 

The Beast sits up, and the catskin tumbles down into his lap and freezes, too uneasy to move, falling silent as tension makes every line of its body. He observes the lantern for a moment before hooking his claws under the handle and holding it out to the catskin, frozen in his lap. 

Enoch blinks after a moment, gaze flicking between the lantern and the Beast.

“You took it the first time.” The Beast rumbles. “This time, I am giving it to you.” 

“I-” Enoch flounders. 

“You promised you would do me a good turn. I trust you to take care of it.”

Enoch blinks at him, eyes cautious. 

The Beast sets the lantern in his lap against the catskin and watches as Enoch's tail wraps around the lantern. The Beast's lantern now nestled like a treasure between his paws. 

“I…” Enoch begins and trails off, hesitating. At last, his shoulders slump, and his posture relaxes. “Thank you.” He murmurs. 

The Beast hums and scratches behind Enoch’s ears before closing his eyes, and falling asleep, reassured that his lantern is in good paws.


End file.
